The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(75)

Don’t remind me. “Well I don’t care what you think. I’m going to get my son back, one way or another.”

“No.”

Sandy closed the space between them and took Mal’s head in both hands. Mal swallowed, feeling the pressure of Sandy’s mind against his own. If his brother tried to coerce him using his magic, could he stop him? For long moments they stood there, eye to eye, the roiling storm of his brother’s frustration and… yes, grief beating against his resolve, then with a sudden movement Sandy threw him across the bed. Mal rolled, fighting the instinct to draw his dagger.

“Stop it, Sandy! You’re playing into their hands, letting them turn us against one another.”

“I am not Alexander. I am Erishen.” He was weeping now, tears rolling down his cheeks to disappear into his beard.

“I know. And you love Kiiren and want nothing more than to protect him. All right, I’ll trust you. But if anything happens to him, even a hint of mistreatment, I will fight my way into the prince’s household and take him by force. Do you understand?”

Sandy nodded. “The guisers cannot keep you from him; it would look too suspicious. And if they harm him, I will know at once.”

“I will wait,” Mal said, half to himself. “But not forever.”





PART TWO



“I can add colours to the chameleon,

Change shapes with Proteus for advantages,

And set the murderous Machiavel to school.

Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?

Tut, were it farther off, I’ll pluck it down.”



William Shakespeare, Henry VI, part III





CHAPTER XX



Kit stole a glance out of the schoolroom window. Such a beautiful spring morning, with fat clouds scudding across the sky like the white sails of ships. Perhaps they would be allowed a game of cricket before dinner, if it didn’t rain again. Not that he was very good at cricket, but being outdoors was better than history lessons. He could pretend the bat was a belaying pin and the bails his beloved ship Unicorn that he had to protect from enemy fire. It was his duty as captain, after all.

His daydream was interrupted by the thwack! of Master Weston’s cane on the lectern.

“Eduarde Princeps.” Weston’s cane pointed at twelve year-old Prince Edward. “Ubi Francogallos vicit Henricus Quintus?”

The prince stared down at his ink-stained fingers as if the answer was written on them. Weston tapped his cane on his palm. In the distance a bell began to toll, over and over, as if counting out the minutes it would take the prince to answer.

Edward swallowed. “Anno millesimo… quinqua… um… quadri–”

Thwack!

The schoolmaster’s eyes narrowed. “How long have I been teaching you, Your Highness?”

“F-five years, sir.”

“And yet you still have as poor a grasp of history – and Latin – as young Catlyn there,” Weston pointed his cane at Kit, “who is scarcely more than seven years old.”

“I am sorry, sir.”

Edward really did appear sorry, and his face fell further when Weston beckoned forward William Neville, the prince’s companion and proxy. Kit swallowed against the taste of bile and tried not to wince as the cane whistled down. Neville stuffed his fist in his mouth to muffle a sob; Prince Edward had already made several mistakes this morning. Kit was glad Henry was a lot better at his lessons than his older brother, otherwise it would be him up there with a tender arse.

Something damp hit Kit’s temple and plopped onto the desk in front of him. A tiny paper pellet soaked in ink. He lifted his hand to his brow and his fingers came away stained black. He knew it was de Vere, even without looking, and he knew which one of them would get the blame if they were caught horsing around. Kit slipped his hand into his pocket, drew out his handkerchief and did his best to wipe the ink off whilst pretending to blow his nose.

Master Weston straightened up with a grunt of satisfaction and gestured impatiently at Neville, who got to his feet and limped back to his desk. The schoolmaster cast his eye over his pupils. Kit shrank down on his bench, hoping to be overlooked.

“Henrice Princeps?” Weston gestured to Edward’s young brother and repeated his earlier question.

“Ad proelium Asincurtense, magister.”

“Very good, Your Highness. Though I think it was no challenge for you. Perhaps something more difficult?”

Before the schoolmaster could frame his next question, however, the schoolroom door burst open to reveal a tall man whom Kit did not recognise. From his embroidered and lace-trimmed clothing and rich jewellery, Kit took him to be a courtier. He leant on a stick, though he was not a very old man like Master Weston.

“May I help you, my lord?” the schoolmaster quavered, bowing low as the man limped past him to kneel awkwardly before the princes.

“Your Highnesses, I bring grave news,” the man said. “Your grandmother Queen Elizabeth is dead, and your father is now King.”

Edward turned pale and put a hand to his mouth. “Then…”

“You’re Prince of Wales,” his brother said with a grin. “Like Father was until just now.”

The new heir to the throne got to his feet. “Thank you, Suffolk.”